


it's over (i want this part to be over)

by Hugabug



Series: HL Modern Domestic AU [10]
Category: Heneral Luna (2015)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Light Angst, Makeup, Married Couple, Multi, post-Almost Divorce, post-makeup, that stage after the fight when you want to touch each other but you're just both so RAW, which in my opinion is the hardest part of fighting with someone u love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 15:05:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7897351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hugabug/pseuds/Hugabug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fight is a whirlwind of raw emotion, a hurricane of excess and depravity, a torrent of cracked glass and spilled cold spaghetti, blinding you with a solid wall of heavy rain and shoving wind. </p>
<p>During the storm, you feel nothing <i>but</i> the storm.</p>
<p>It's after, when you try to make sense of the disaster and the water that now comes up to your ankles, try to make sense of the grey-blue sky overhead and the debris beneath your feet, try to make sense of the shock that numbs you to your very soul, that you ask yourself-- <i>what do I do now?</i></p>
<p>The answer is this; be patient, pick up the pieces (your pride, your loss, your ashes, your broken bridges), and carry on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's over (i want this part to be over)

**Author's Note:**

> direct sequel to [this](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7483821) as requested by nikki and jake bc apparently foul daw ako #sorrynotsorry

Hilaria takes him to the side and whispers in his ear; "Did you see the way he jumped?"

And his teeth grind against each other in an attempt to keep it all in, the way he would when in the court room and faced with a particularly cunning opponent. But he's not in the court room right now. Right now, he's in Medical City, wheelchair parked in front of the office of one few doctors in Metro Manila he trusts to save his husband. And he's grinding his teeth. "Yes." he says, more forceful than he intended. "I saw."

He's not angry at Hilaria, and he tells himself this when she smiles at him sadly and squeezes his shoulder as she walks past into her office. He tells himself this when Miong comes back from the pharmacy, prescription bottles in a little paper bag, held close to his chest. He's not angry at Hilaria, despite the easy way Miong's shoulders slump when alone with her compared to the way they stiffen every time he's with Pole. He's not angry at Hilaria, and he knows this.

So instead, Pole tells himself he's tired-- it's eleven o'clock in the evening, way past the bed time his own doctor had advised him, and he has a hearing at eight o'clock AM tomorrow. He's tired and there's a lot on his mind and this is what he tells himself when Miong smiles at him, small and brittle, and squeezes his hand before pulling away, like he's afraid Pole will burn.

"Good night." he says, rushing away.

"Good night." Pole replies. Then, a minute passes; "I love you."

But he says it to a closed door.

A week later, Feli takes him aside, and asks him; "Is he still sleeping in the guest bedroom?"

She says it in a tone of concern, but it's leveled and easy, the voice of a shrink, harking back to her training even though she's a specialist in Development Psychology and not big-fuck-up therapy. Pole bites his tongue this time and ignores the frustration that stirs just below his ribs. "Yes." he says, quiet. "He doesn't want to touch me."

And that's all they say to each other, even though Pole's tongue feels loose and his heart feels heavy and he wants to say _something_ because Miong is scared and Pole is scared and they don't know how to act around each other after being apart for so long. But that's all they say, because just as Pole opens his mouth, they hear the sound of vomiting in the next room and Feli's husband rushes past them, carrying Miong's stained work barong in his hands.

"I'll get him another under shirt." he says to Pole when they pass each other, Pole on the way to rub his husband's back, him on the way to be of more help than Pole ever could. "I have plenty of those."

Feli drives them back home, and Pole says "I love you," to a closed wooden door. The next morning, he hears Miong vomit again, but it's Goyong that gets up to help him.

Miong still won't let Pole touch him.

* * *

It's a gradual thing, and it takes every ounce of Pole's patience. Hilaria says Miong's body's refusal to cooperate with the medicine is due to levels of stress, and Feli says it's important to let him breathe. He listens to both of them, because he's a lawyer, not a doctor, and he tries very hard not to scratch at himself in a sorry attempt to rid of this feeling of  _uselessness_. That constant whisper at the back of his head that steadily goes;  _you're going to lose him and it'll be too late. You're going to lose him and you'll be too late. You're going to lose him,_  again _,_ _and you'll never_ ever _get to say goodbye_ \--

He pushes those aside and every night, he reaches out a hand when Miong reaches for his, lingers longer when he feels Miong fighting the urge to pull away. Then let's him go when his right hand starts to twitch. He says "I love you," to a closed door  because he knows Miong is listening somehow, and Pole thinks, even if he isn't, it doesn't change anything. It doesn't change what he feels.

"I love you," he says, and he waits. Five minutes. Ten. It's approaching twenty and he contemplates leaving before the shadow beneath the slit of the door shuffles a bit, dancing back and forth. Pole watches as it grows bigger, as the owner comes closer, and as the wood quivers when a large frame presses against it with a yearning that makes Pole's throat throb.

"I love you," he says again, reaching out and brushing fingers oh so gently against the barrier between them. He wants to tear it down, with his hands and his nails and a guttural scream, but he doesn't because Miong needs distance and Miong needs patience and Miong is  _trying_ , god is he trying.

And Miong is scared. Pole is scared, too. And that's all they could be at this moment, standing beneath the grey-blue sky, lightning behind them, thunder in the distance. Frightened beyond measure, as flood water recedes to their ankles and the sun shines upon the debris. There are other storms coming, and they will never be able to survive it apart, but picking up the pieces takes time.

The wood quivers again, and the shadow shrinks.

They're apart, but they're drifting close and they're getting there.

* * *

Pole leaves his door open in case one of their sons has a nightmare. Nowadays, it's only Goyong, coming to him for comfort despite being nearly a man, almost as tall as his Itay and sturdier than either of his fathers have ever been. Nonong stays closed off in his quarters, keeping to his studies and to his letters and taking meals in his room every time he can. It breaks Pole's heart, makes him hate himself more than he has ever before, but he let's that be, too, and summons every ounce of patience once again, tells himself that this takes _time_. 

Time that he  _has_.

It's a reminder he's trying to get used to, what with the constant cruelty that is change. Everything is calm, but the lightning still crackles in the air and Nonong's too far, not anywhere near, and not getting closer any faster.

Not  _yet_.

And it's the  _yet_ he dreams about when he tries to lull himself to a restful sleep.

* * *

It's eleven o'clock in the evening again and Hilaria bids them farewell. She's got a smile on her face when she says that Miong is improving and Pole's PREP should kick in in about 7 days. It's Paco who drives them home, since Miong still suffers from bouts of vertigo, and Pole sits at the back, staring out the window and steadily trying to ignore the echo of Paco's strained retelling of their sons' day at school.

When they reach the house, all is quiet, and their boys are asleep.

Miong reaches out once again, as is his habit, and Pole takes his hand, feels the squeeze of trembling fingers around his palm, tries to memorize the sensation and tells himself that this is enough. That he's willing to wait because he loves and he cares and he wants Miong to get better.

"Good night." Miong says, pulling away.

"Good night."

The door closes, and Pole says, in a whisper that betrays how tired he is, how heavy his chest feels; "I need you."

He leaves too early to see the wood quiver.

* * *

It's two o'clock in the morning when the other side of the bed dips underneath a heavy weight. He's a light sleeper-- or maybe he hasn't slept at all, he doesn't know, really. The minutes and hours blend together, a routine that plays behind his eye lids every day, like a wind up toy that goes around in circles until the rusty key on its back stops turning.

He twists to lie on his back, and squints.

"You're here." Pole rasps, sitting up. He does so slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements.

Against the light in the hallway, Miong's smile looks small. "I am."

They're silent for a moment. Outside, the crickets chirp and down the street, the Lunas' watch dog howls, the sound tapering off into a sleepy bark. In a few hours, the sun will come up again and burn the sky back into a vibrant blue and just like that, it'll be another day, another start to a never ending cycle. It's too sudden, like a clock with arms that steadily move, too fast for the eye to see. Time was a fickle thing, and humans were even more complicated, wanting to catch up, to be just as quick, even when every move makes them scream out in pain.

Miong reaches out. Pole meets him half way.

"I--" Miong begins, taking in a hitching breath. His right hand is shaking. "I miss you."

Pole's heart flutters. One. Two. Three. "I miss you, too."

When he pulls, Miong sways forward and falls against Pole's side. Momentarily, he stiffens, fighting the instinctual urge to pull away, but Pole runs fingers through his hair, kisses his forehead, and Miong melts against him, face buried into the crook of his neck. He throws an arm around Pole's waist, intertwines the fingers of both their right hands and Pole brings his wrist up to his mouth, kisses along the parts of Miong's scar that he can reach.

"It's over." Miong says, in a voice that is hopeful and small, more of a question than an actual statement. "This part is over."

"Yes," Pole answers, squeezing Miong's hand to the sturdy plane of his sternum. Miong's lips flutter against his pulse point, and Pole's heart slows down to an easy rhythm. "This part is over."

The shock passes, he feels light, and suddenly the disaster doesn't seem so bad.

**Author's Note:**

> this answers two questions that were raised in (don't) end (us) with silence: 1) why was Miong always coming home late? &; 2) whose undershirt was he wearing?
> 
> anyway, this was suppose to be fluffy/happy but i got carried away. woops.
> 
> (also the imagery & writing style is totally different from don't end us bc im trying out a new writing style-- tell me what u think!!)
> 
> Happy National Heroes Day!! (?) Lol


End file.
